Mad About You

by Bond, Stephanie

  She gripped the handle. "Look, James, I'm sure you're exhausted from your trip and today's activities—"

  He stopped her with a pointed look. "I've never suffered from jet lag in my life, and we have many things to discuss. Plus I want to see you safely secured away."

  Relief washed over her, and she supposed her face showed it. "I'd be grateful."

  He leaned toward her, his eyes glinting in amusement. "Grateful, did you say?"

  His gaze roved over her, and Kat burned with embarrassment. The man must have an indiscriminate taste for American women if he could flirt with her the way she looked now. She fumbled for the door handle and nearly tripped in her haste to escape his close proximity. By the time she had righted herself, he was out of the car and beside her, taking her arm.

  "Easy," he said, his voice as soothing as the hot shower she intended to take the instant he left. And as far as these weird, tingly feelings James evoked in her, she passed it off as lack of sleep, lack of food, and lack of sex.

  Her shoulders tensed as they climbed the few steps and walked down the hall. When he swung open the door, she thought she was prepared for the worst, but she was wrong.

  "Bloody hell," he muttered.

  Vile American phrases whirled through Kat's head, but her tongue and body were paralyzed. She recognized the arm of her couch peeking out beneath a mountain of books and other debris. Drawers and shelves had been emptied, with no thought to replacing the items. Scarcely a bare spot remained on the floor. Pots and pans, bathroom linens, clothing—the contents of the rooms had been commingled and abandoned.

  She lifted her hand to her mouth and whispered, "Can they do this?"

  "Apparently so," James replied, lifting a carbon of a written order that had been taped to the door. He swung his head back and forth to survey the damage. "Seems a bit sloppy to me."

  Kat's legs felt rubbery. In the space of a few seconds, the events of the last twenty-four hours had caught up to her.

  He curled his arm around her waist. "You're quite pale, Pussy-Kat, maybe you'd better lie down."

  Which seemed like the most hilarious thing she'd ever heard, considering there was no place for her to lie down. She opened her mouth to laugh, but only a pathetic little squeak emerged.

  James released her and removed his jacket, hanging it from a bare nail where a picture had once hung, then began rolling up his sleeves. "I'll clear us a spot to sit while you freshen up," he said cheerfully.

  She smoothed a hand down the sleeve of the ratty cardigan she'd thrown on over her dinner clothes—God, had it been only this morning? Her skin itched, her scalp crawled, her tongue tasted stale. Her state of grooming seemed insignificant compared to everything else she'd been through, but right now the small solace of hot water sounded like nirvana. "Well, perhaps just a quick shower," she murmured.

  He waved her toward the bedroom, then began retrieving books from the sofa and shelving them. Kat yanked a semi-folded clean towel from a mound on the floor and walked into the disaster area that used to be her bedroom. Swallowing a lump of frustration, she marched straight through the strewn articles of her life and into the white tiled bathroom, which was too small for the police to have wrought much damage. At least the shower curtain hung intact.

  She turned on the water and let it run over her fingers until it was warm. Kat stole a glance toward the living room, then slowly pulled the bathroom door shut. Every nerve ending, every muscle quivered as she undressed, keenly aware of the man only a few strides away.

  A stranger, really. Handsome, aloof, confident, oozing more testosterone than all the men she'd been complaining about to Denise yesterday at lunch put together. How had they become so...so...comfortable that she had relaxed her normal paranoid security measures where people, and especially men, were concerned?

  She unbound her hair and stared at the lock on the bathroom door. It had never worked. Was she being foolishly trustworthy? She had never even seen the man's identification—she'd taken him at his word that he was some kind of secret service man for the crown, or something like that. Walking into the shower backward, she jerked the curtain closed.

  Kat reached for the shampoo and dumped a glob on the top of her head. Where exactly had Agent Donovan been during the burglary? If anyone in the group could get around security measures, it would be him. Perhaps his scam was accompanying a piece of art to its destination, then stealing it and selling it on the black market. He'd make money, the owner would collect insurance....

  Lathering her hair furiously, she mulled over what she knew about him. If he was a secret agent, then he probably knew all kinds of ways to kill people. Plus, how to make it appear accidental. And if he worked for the British government, he probably had diplomatic immunity—a license to thrill, er...kill.

  At the sound of a muffled thump, she jerked up her head. What was that? Had he barricaded them inside the apartment? Would he hold her hostage? Make her bend to his sexual will? She sounded hysterical, even to herself, but she couldn't stop the rush of adrenaline. She had to get out of there.

  Rinsing her hair frantically, she remembered his gun—and God only knew how many other weapons he carried: poison-tipped writing pens, detonating jewelry, a switchblade.

  The scene from Psycho flashed through her mind and she looked around quickly for something to use in her defense if he came crashing through the door. A rusty disposable razor lay in the corner—she could nick him to death and hope for tetanus.

  Kat soaped and rinsed her skin in mere seconds, then turned off the water with shaky hands and wrapped the towel around her. After hurriedly wringing the moisture from her hair, she listened carefully at the bathroom door. Nothing.

  No, wait...something.

  Music?

  Kat recognized the crashing, grinding crescendos of the instrumental theme to a live performance she'd seen. From all the CDs she owned that were probably scattered to the four corners of the apartment, he'd somehow managed to find her favorite.

  Opening the door a crack, she peeked into her bedroom. Not only was the coast clear, but it appeared he had closed the door leading into the living room to give her privacy. Was it possible that she had met the last breathing gentleman on earth? Then she recalled his wicked innuendos and decided that James Donovan was only a gentleman when it suited his purposes.

  After hunting for toiletries and coming up empty-handed except for a bottle of pink baby lotion, she sat down on her clothes-covered bed and massaged the creamy stuff into her skin. The colossal mess in her room made her sick to her stomach. Or was that hunger? The clock read five-fifteen p.m. and she hadn't eaten since last night's white lasagna. She mined underwear, a pair of gray leggings, and a long white shirt from the mountains of clothing on her bed and dresser. It would take her days to get things back in place. It took every ounce of energy she had to keep from stretching out on the floor on top of her sock collection for a good cry.

  Her hair dryer was nowhere to be found, so she simply combed her long wet hair straight back from her forehead. She did, however, find her ancient fuzzy house shoes. Pulling them on felt like hugging an old friend. Today, she was taking pleasure wherever she could find it.

  Kat paused for a moment inside her bedroom door, smiling wryly at her earlier wild musings. So James was a little forward, a little too confident, a little overwhelming...that was a long way from being a criminal.

  A knock on the other side startled her. "Kat?" he asked, his voice low.

  Instead of worrying like a ninny, she should be thankful to have someone of his expertise on her side. How that could have come about was a bit of a mystery in and of itself. She turned the knob and opened the door, poised to thank James for everything he'd done.

  Instead, she froze at the sight of the butcher knife he held toward her chest.

  Chapter Six

  "ARE YOU HUNGRY?" James asked, confused at the expression on her face. "I ordered in a pizza pie."

  "P-Pizza?" she asked, eyeing the knife
warily.

  He glanced at the knife in his hand and laughed. "I couldn't locate the correct tool to cut it, so I improvised."

  She smiled shakily and nodded, then looked over his shoulder. "It smells wonderful."

  Not nearly as wonderful as she smelled, he noted, his body tightening in response to the sweet, fresh scent floating around her. He'd had to close the door to her bedroom and turn on the stereo to drown out the sounds of her showering. Had Kat's life not been turned upside down in the past few hours, he might have joined her, the desire to see her lush curves shiny-slick almost embarrassing for a man who prided himself on self-control. He swept his arm toward the small kitchen. "I found two barstools and cleared enough counter space for us to eat."

  She ran her fingers through her dark, wet hair, disrupting the even marks her comb had left behind. Without her glasses, she seemed softer, more vulnerable. The lady had exceptional skin, pale without makeup, but wonderfully translucent. And the kind of bone structure that guaranteed her graceful aging. She walked in front of him, picking her way around the mess, and he noticed her house slippers.

  "Fond of those furry feet-things, aren't you?" he asked, not bothering to hide his amusement.

  "Love me, love my slippers," she quipped, the mere mention of the L word causing his heart to temporarily seize. "How did you know to order from Sid's?" she asked, raising the lid on the pizza box. "Oooh, olives." She lifted out a slice of the cheese-gooey pizza and bit off the pointed end with nice, even teeth.

  "It's listed on your land line’s speed dial directory," he said, pointing to the device he'd unearthed in the couch cushions. "By the way, your message light is flashing."

  Still chewing, she walked over and punched a button. The voice reported she had five messages. Kat glanced at James, a slight frown furrowing her brow. She was weighing whether to trust him with her personal communication. He busied himself with removing two beers from her refrigerator, his gaze averted, but his ears pricked. A high-pitched tone sounded, then Denise's voice came on the line.

  "Kat, call me—your cell phone must be dead, I’ve left you a half dozen messages. I want to hear all about your date with Mister Divine." James bit back a smile, and resisted looking in Kat's direction for her reaction. Another tone sounded. "Ms. McKray," a female voice said, "this is Maria Russert from Channel Thirty-one News. We'd like an interview about the theft at the gallery."

  Kat must have cut her off, because another tone sounded. "Kat, this is Guy." His voice was brusque, a shade short of rude. "Under the circumstances, I think it would be best for all involved if you took an indefinite leave of absence. Call and leave a voice message to let me know you received this." James winced—not unexpected, but still another blow for her to deal with.

  Another tone, and Denise's voice again, this time several octaves higher. "Kat! Jesus Christ Almighty, where are you? I heard on the news that the gallery was burglarized, and when I called you at work some dumbass told me you'd been arrested! I'm having congestive heart failure! Call me the instant you get this message." Another tone, and Denise's voice again, this time a frantic whisper. "Kat! The police were just here asking me all kinds of questions about you! What the freak is going on? I'm going nutso waiting to hear from you!"

  After a few seconds of silence, James lifted his head and chanced a glance in her direction. She had abandoned her pizza and stood holding the handset, her fingers poised to dial. "James," she said, swinging her face toward him, "I need to make a couple of quick phone calls."

  "Would you like some privacy?" he felt obliged to ask.

  But she was already dialing. She paused a moment, apparently waiting for a recorder to kick on. "Guy, this is Katherine. I received your message, and I agree with you one hundred percent. I'll be in touch." He admired how direct and strong her voice sounded. Kat dialed again, her face brightening after a few seconds. "Hey, Denise, it's me. Yeah, can you believe it? They even handcuffed me....Well, of course I didn't do it...." She put one hand on her hip. "Denise, what time did you leave last night? Nine-thirty? Are you absolutely sure? Okay. Did anyone call or did you notice anyone hanging around last night when you left?" She bit her lower hp, frowning. "Did anyone come to the door—a salesman perhaps? Because some maniac got in here and stole my clothes and security badge, then dressed up like me to break into a vault....No, Denise, I'm not shitting you." She smiled wryly in James's direction. "I'll be fine—Valmer Getty is handling everything....Yes...er, no, don't come over." She looked at James again, this time shifting uncomfortably. "Mr. Donovan drove me home." Kat sighed. "Yes, he's still here."

  Cupping the mouthpiece with her hand, she turned her back and lowered her voice. He almost couldn't hear her. Almost. "It's not like that, Denise...I'm hanging up now...Good-bye." She stabbed the disconnect button, then turned a cheery smile in his direction. "How about that? I'm fired and the police shook down my best friend."

  He nodded and lowered himself to a barstool, dubiously studying the greasy pizza pie before transferring a slice to a paper towel. "How well do you know your friend Denise?" Experimentally he bit off a small chunk, then a larger bite.

  Kat rescued her own dinner from the end table and joined him at the bar, shoving aside a haphazard stack of cereal boxes. "We've been friends for three years—what are you getting at?"

  James shrugged casually at her prickly response. "I'm just trying to rule out possible suspects. She was here and could easily have taken your clothing and badge."

  "You don't know Denise," she said, shaking her head.

  "People can behave strangely if they are desperate," he pressed. "Is she in financial straits?"

  "No," she said quickly, then stopped. "Well, except for joking about money to buy her apartment—her building is being converted to condos."

  "Is she familiar with the layout of the gallery?"

  Kat angled her head. "Several weeks ago she asked me to take her on a full-blown tour. I showed her the vaults that day." Her voice had grown much more uncertain, then she straightened. "Denise couldn't—wouldn't—do it."

  "Could she be an unwitting accomplice, perhaps giving someone else access to your place without your knowledge, or even hers? A boyfriend perhaps?"

  "I think she's seeing someone, but she insists he's just a friend."

  "Do you know his name?"

  "No, but this is a stretch, James, don't you think?"

  "Does she know the circumstances surrounding your reluctant employment with Jellico's?"

  She fidgeted. "No."

  "Then if you have secrets from her, don't you think it likely that she has secrets from you?"

  She shook her head stubbornly. "I can't comprehend it."

  "Okay," he relented for the time being, taking a swig of the weak domestic beer. "Then let's go down the list: Who would want to frame you?"

  She sighed mightily. "If I knew that, Agent Donovan, don't you think I would have been shouting it from the top of the jailhouse?"

  The color had returned to her cheeks. She was, he decided, simply beautiful. Tumble-out-of-bed-looking-great beautiful. Her expressive brows held her looks just shy of classic—her features were unique, arresting...and had become alarmingly satisfying to his eyes in a short period of time. He blinked, forcing his attention back to the matter at hand. "What about your boss? Or even his boss? Perhaps this is a way to get rid of you since your so-called debt to them is nearly paid."

  Kat pushed back a long lock of dark hair that had dried and fallen over her ear. "I suspect Guy knew I'd be leaving soon—they weren't going to have to push me out the door. Remember, they're the ones who wanted this working arrangement, not me. Besides, Guy was so excited about showing the King's love letter, he'd never do anything to jeopardize the show. I'm sure he's devastated."

  "Does the gallery specialize in private auctions?"

  She shook her head, dislodging more thick hair to distract him. "No, in fact, this is the first auction at Jellico’s to attract media attention. We typically give the
pieces West Coast exposure, then ship them back east to the large auction houses."

  "And how did the gallery learn about the letter?"

  "Guy has European connections from a Los Angeles gallery he ran before coming to Jellico's. Since there are several document collectors in the Bay Area, he's constantly putting out feelers for new entries on the market."

  "These document collectors—are they history buffs?"

  She lifted the bottle of beer to her mouth for a quick drink. "Not necessarily—we've sold letters, movie scripts, autographs, even recipes."

  He pursed his lips. "I suppose there is a market for everything. What about the other fellow, Wharton?"

  She dismissed his notion with a wave. "Andy's harmless. He's quite a good painter, studied all over Europe, but in this city, good painters are a dime a dozen. He turned his talents toward restoration, and my dad hired him while I was working summers during college."

  "Are you artistic?" he probed.

  This prompted a laugh, a sound he definitely wanted to hear more often. "I was only blessed with an appreciation and a good eye."

  "So you're good at what you do?" He hadn't meant it to be a loaded question, but the glance she gave him said she suspected a setup.

  "Yes," she said simply. "Otherwise, Guy wouldn't tolerate me working there, no matter how much he thought I owed the gallery. For all his faults, he runs a top-notch operation." She took another bite, twisting the stretchy cheese around a finger and licking it off.

  James ran a finger around the collar of his turtleneck "What about the security officers?"

  Kat chewed slowly as she pondered his question. "Carl Jays and Ronald Beaman are the only ones I know past a first-name basis. Ron has been with the gallery since the day it opened and, as far as I know, has never raised an eyebrow."

  "Mr. Trent mentioned a guard he fired because he suspected the man of stealing."

  Nodding, Kat said, "I remember, but I think Guy was wrong. Jack Tomlin was guilty of overly admiring some of the gallery's jewelry, but I don't believe he was a thief."